


It's All In The Details

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Embassy AU, Fluff, John is security detail, M/M, Sherlock is a translator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson returned from Afghanistan to a shoddy bedsit and some occasional security work for some mysterious government official. When he's assigned to protect an embassy translator named Sherlock Holmes, who is receiving death threats from an unknown source, he finds something he didn't know he was looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea came to me at 4am and I couldn't shake it. This is my first ever fic so I beg your kind patience and a wee bit of indulgence! Mahoosive thanks to my wonderful beta superblue, any errors/inconsistencies/general crappiness are entirely mine.

John should be used to the sleek black car sliding into the space outside his front door, possibly heralding some new assignment from his mysterious boss, but he isn't. It’s only been a couple of months since he first found himself on a list somewhere in the high echelons of power. Apparently someone of importance takes a very serious interest in former military personnel willing and able to take on work at a moment’s notice. It still gives him just a little rush to know that the government official who employs him sometimes (whoever he is) is summoning him to a potentially dangerous but more than likely dull as dishwater job. 

Still, it's better this occasional work than the alternative. Since returning home he's tried to hold down regular employment at a surgery; but nightmares still plague him and sometimes it's all he can do just to get out of bed in the morning, shaking and sweaty from the sand and blood-filled images behind his eyelids. 

The car door opens as John pulls the flimsy front door closed, this grim bedsit was meant to be just a halfway house but without regular work, and only an army pension, he can't afford to stay in the city centre. Settling into the back seat he idly wonders what this job will involve. Hopefully it'll be more interesting than the last one. He'd spent most of his time at that EU briefing standing at the venue's service entrance in the pissing rain, not seeing or speaking to anyone except the occasional staff member out for a quick, sneaky smoke. No, he thinks optimistically, this job will be better, pay better, and last longer too. It’s about time something good came his way. 

Dragging himself from his speculation, he realises the car has turned a different way this time, heading somewhere other than the usual destination. John subconsciously sits a little straighter, trying to subtly discern where they are from clues outside the window. Some kind of warehouse? What the hell?

He's out of the car quickly, nerves singing with anticipation. A tall figure stands a short distance away, and John approaches cautiously. The man is leaning on his umbrella, looking almost through John as he walks slowly towards him. 

"Sit down, Dr. Watson." His soft accent belies a powerful voice as the man invites John to take his place in a chair several feet from the car. Despite the ache in his leg, John silently declines to sit, and fixes the stranger with his coldest military gaze. The man gestures again to the chair, John steadfastly remains standing. Clearly this isn't the simple guard duty he expected. This doesn’t feel like the kind of work he’s become accustomed to, where he’s basically no more than an anonymous physical presence, presenting a formidable obstacle for no other reason than that’s what’s required. There’s something else going on, something big’s coming.

With a vaguely bored roll of his eyes, the stranger pulls a small notebook from the pocket of his tailored suit jacket. "Trust issues, it says here. Your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. She thinks you're traumatised by your experiences of the war. Fire her; she's got it the wrong way round. You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson, you miss it." 

John bristles as the stranger reads from his therapist's supposedly private notes, wondering who the hell this is and why he's here. He's just about to open his mouth to ask this fucking creep what he's playing at when the man looks up from the notebook and says, "I have a special assignment for you. It is of a delicate nature, and for reasons that you do not need to be apprised of I'd prefer my involvement remain unknown. The subject can be...challenging." 

Frowning, John finally finds his voice, "Why me?" 

The man raises an eyebrow briefly then shifts to lean on his other leg. "This subject requires careful handling, and as much as I am loathe admit it, our normal procedures do not apply." 

"You don't trust your own security services?" John queries.

"Naturally not, they all spy on people for money."

John risks a small smile at that. So this is a private job of sorts then. 

"This subject is very high profile and of very high value,” the man continues. “I worry about him; constantly. You will provide 24 hour services no matter what the subject is occupied with, and will ensure his safety at all times no matter his protestations. He has been under threat for the best part of a week and his previous detail has proven of very little worth. It is my hope that you shall succeed and at the very least, hold his interest long enough for the very serious threats to his life to be resolved. Do you accept the job, Dr Watson?"

John considers for a moment. He could go back to his bedsit, get a coffee, go for a walk in the park, wander through the city alone, then go home and stare at his gun. Everything could be just normal; as it always is. He unconsciously licks his lips. He’s self-aware enough to know that without this, without the unknown challenge being laid out in front of him, he will fade. He will falter and diminish, hues of dull grey, flickering at the edges, before finally dispersing into nothing. He inhales deeply, just a hint of a new flame in his eyes as he speaks. 

"What's the subject's name?"

"Sherlock Holmes." 

*****************

John is a little apprehensive as he climbs the steps to the embassy. He's been in the presence of state officials before, but not for a very long time. He's used to feeling a bit nervous; thinking back to parade grounds, inspections and such like when he had just joined up. He remembers when it was his turn to give the orders, and grins at the thought of commanding squads of new recruits, fresh and eager to please. His grin falters as his mind begins to wander into the territory he visits in his nightmares; but he won't allow a loss of composure right now. He has a new job to think about and a new subject's protection to focus on.

The briefing file on his new charge was surprisingly sparse, given the cold interest in the eyes of the stranger in the warehouse. There were no photos, which struck John as very unusual, but there were some redacted medical records and psychiatric evaluations. It also included a very short description of Mr. Holmes' academic achievements (of which there were many), which languages he specialises in through his role as senior translator and interpreter, and a few notes about his personal characteristics. This was the part John found most interesting; Mr Holmes' previous security detail, ex-police sergeant Sally Donovan, obviously had had some kind of axe to grind, simply writing "freak" in the margins. The typed assessment by the second member of the team, a Philip Anderson, was one short paragraph reading:

"Holmes is arrogant, dismissive and displays clear signs of sociopathic tendencies. He is thoroughly unpleasant to anyone around him, deliberately antagonising with his so-called deductions. He takes perverse pleasure in laying out the details of a person's private life when he feels they are being stupid or boring, which is any time they try to converse with him. He's impossible, taking every opportunity to ditch his security team and skulk about the upper floors of the old library annoying the shit out of everyone. Good luck finding anyone who actually wants to take over and spend time with the fucking git." 

Ah, well that explains what happened to Holmes' previous team then. They quit at the same time before they could be fired. It probably wasn't anything to do with the rumours, just their unmanageable subject. John grins again, he's quite looking forward to seeing if this guy matches up to expectations and gives John an excuse to pull out his Captain persona. It’s been a while. 

John finally reaches the security gate, where he is met by the head of security for the embassy. Greg Lestrade has silvery hair and kind, brown eyes, but John knows immediately from his stance that this man can handle himself when the situation calls for it. Lestrade smiles and reaches out to shake John's hand firmly. 

"So you're Watson then? Taking on Sherlock Holmes' protection til this mess gets sorted out?" John smiles back, nods. He still has no real clue what mess Lestrade is referring to, the file didn't make any mention of why Holmes needs a security detail, just that the last one had only managed to stick with him for only two days. 

"How long have you been with the embassy?" John asks as they climb yet more flights of stairs, past the armed guards and into the heart of the grand old building currently housing the ambassador and her support staff; including the erstwhile translator/interpreter. 

"Long enough," Lestrade chuckles, "You see a lot and say very little in a position like mine. Now, Holmes is up there in the old library. We mostly avoid it so as not to disturb him. Well, not so much as to disturb him but to avoid his, um, unique way of interacting. I guess they probably told you what happened with Donovan and Anderson, right? I get on just fine with the guy, but I know he can be a bit...not good." Lestrade falls silent and John is suddenly and inexplicably nervous again. When Lestrade finally continues, his voice is quieter and there's a soft fondness to his words. "He's brilliant, you know…at what he does. Anyone who listens to him can see that. Well, if you care to look beyond all that poncy, ridiculous aloofness. He doesn’t make it easy though. When you meet him, just...try not to punch him.” Lestrade claps John swiftly on the back and begins descending the stairs, leaving John to carefully climb the remaining steps up to the heavy door to the old library.

Outside the door, John pauses and presses an ear to the cracked wood, listening intently. Hearing nothing but the buzzing of the ancient-looking electric lights, he takes a deep breath and steps inside.

The round room of the library is dimly lit by a small lamp on the desk at the back of the room and the bookshelves stretch up towards the high ceiling. There are books on virtually every surface, and the shelves seem to strain under the weighty tomes housed there. Through the dimness, John can hardly see the stiff, leather-bound spines at the top. At first glance there’s no discernible order, just hundreds of volumes scattered everywhere, but as he looks, John can see there’s care in their placement. The library’s occupant clearly enjoys the books. On the desk sits an open laptop, its shallow blue glow diffusing a incongruous light over stacks of folders, papers and notebooks threatening to spill over onto the oak flooring. There's a sofa pushed against the far wall, and John barely registers the minute stirring of movement as the man reclining there opens one eye, gazes briefly over him and closes it again. Feeling a little like he's been called to the headmaster's room for putting frogs in the girls toilets, John takes in his surroundings and tries to get a sense of the man he's going to be guarding for the next few days, weeks maybe. Christ. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The voice from the sofa is smooth and impossibly deep, a liquid baritone in John's ear. 

“S-sorry, what?" The other man sighs, and sits up slowly from his supine position on the sofa. He regards John lazily, seemingly bored already. 

Sherlock Holmes is, of course, pretending. There's something about this new "protector”, one fairly short but sturdy ex-army doctor. His sandy blonde hair is dusted with grey, the softly worn lines on his face comforting and friendly. Sherlock can determine everything about a person with just one look, strip back the airs and graces to get to the intimate details and expose them if necessary. Yet something about this man has caught his attention beyond the obvious deductions. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asks again, sitting up fully on the sofa, silhouetted in the dim light.

"Er, Afghanistan." John replies, not really knowing why it matters and not really caring. Sherlock humphs, draws himself to his full height and goes over to the desk in two long strides. 

"How.... how did you know?" asks John, curious despite himself. Sherlock glances up at him, ignores the question and reaches for the notebook furthest from the laptop. John watches him from just inside the door, unsure if he should just walk in and unwilling to close the gap between them. If the limited information he’s been given is anything to go on, advancing into the room to take charge might not be the best approach. John has no doubts about his abilities, but is unwilling to cause undue friction in the first few minutes of their acquaintance. His job will be infinitely easier if he’s not seen as a hindrance. Best to keep a distance, he tells himself, just in case. 

Sherlock taps a few keys on the laptop and then looks up, turning his clear, pale eyes to John's. John can feel their weight boring into him; it takes all of his military focus and concentration not to waver under the force of Sherlock's gaze. 

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end, will that bother you?" 

John frowns, what is it with this guy? "I barely know you, regardless of the file I’ve been given, but I assume you're the Sherlock Holmes I've been assigned to. I'm not sure what violin playing has to do with anything, but as long as you avoid cat strangling on that thing I'm sure we'll get along just fine." John thinks perhaps he should've taken a bit more time on the stairs to think about what he was going to say, as actually meeting the man he's going to be protecting up close has thrown him a bit. Sherlock Holmes is tall, angular, and lean. He is immaculately dressed in a tailored black suit and white shirt, accentuating his long limbs and slim hips. John feels stupidly underdressed in his plaid shirt, jumper and jeans. Sherlock’s hair curls loosely over his brow; rich and dark against his pale, marble skin, and his face is at once unconventional and beautiful. His eyes flicker green and blue in the light of the lamp, peering out from under long black lashes and drawing John in; captivated. 

"Your stance, the way you hold yourself say military, as does your haircut. Your hands and clothes tell me you're a doctor, or you were. You still have tan lines on your wrists but clearly not from casual vacationing, so army doctor. You've been recently discharged, in the last six months I'd estimate, probably due to the injuries you sustained in the line of duty. You're here as my new security detail, a ridiculous precaution I tolerate only at the insistence of the ambassador. She does get her way in these matters, privilege of her position I suppose. So, John Watson, you will not disturb me when I am working and I will endure your presence until it is no longer deemed necessary, or you become emotionally volatile and quit, like the last pathetic detail assigned to me." 

At that, Sherlock sweeps from the room past John and down the stairs. John stands for a moment, sniffs in annoyance and, cursing under his breath, follows the disagreeable git out of the library. This is going to be a bit tougher than he thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys get to know each other a bit. Idiots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read this so far! More mahoosive thanks to my super beta superblue, again any errors, typos and general crapness is entirely mine. Enjoy!

John catches up to Sherlock's ridiculously long stride on the second floor landing, just as he flounces through a side door to the left. Jamming his foot in it to keep it from slamming shut, John dives in quickly after the lanky bastard and finds himself in a cosy sitting room. Three pairs of eyes stare at him; Sherlock, the stranger from the warehouse, and a distinguished but friendly looking older woman who John thinks must be the ambassador.

She smiles gently and crosses the room with her hand outstretched. "Ambassador Martha Hudson, dear. You can call me Mrs Hudson if you wish, no need to stand on ceremony, and anyway, Ambassador Hudson is a bloody mouthful. I see you've already met my translator, Sherlock." She gestures to the taller man, "This other fine gentleman is Mycroft, my government liaison..." She grasps John's hand and pulls him in for a brief hug. "…amongst other things," she adds conspiratorially under her breath, pulling out of the embrace and sneaking John a cheeky wink. John likes her immediately.

She turns back to Mycroft and Sherlock, who, no longer watching John and Mrs. Hudson, are regarding each other with undisguised contempt. .

"If there's nothing further Ambassador, I will take my leave," says Mycroft.

"Please do," snorts Sherlock, turning his back and extending the notebook in his hand to Mrs Hudson. "Sherlock," she scolds gently as she accepts the notebook and flips it open to the marked page. Mycroft raises an eyebrow and bows slightly, if a bit stiffly, and silently exits through the door behind John. It swings shut with a quiet thunk and John is glad to be out of the way of at least one piercing stare.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson begin discussing the notebook in hushed tones in a language that is most definitely not English. Sherlock gestures animatedly as he draws her attention to various parts of the text.

John is temporarily forgotten. He takes in the room around him and the two people he will be spending a lot of time with over the next few days, or weeks, or longer.

Mrs Hudson is dressed smartly and almost severely, with her lightly curled hair pulled back from her face, but her warmth easily shines through the stuffy clothing. She presents a stark contrast to the sharp lines and frostiness of her translator. John looks back to Sherlock and his breath catches slightly at what he sees. Sherlock is clearly excited and engaged by the notes under discussion, his features becoming a little less fierce, though the intensity and depth of his eyes is undimmed. It is such a small change, but the effect is enchanting and…amazing. Sherlock’s lips form lovely shapes around words John can’t even begin to understand, and John is somewhat mesmerised by this oddly fascinating man. At this point, he realises he’s pretty much staring and hurriedly looks away.

Sherlock doesn’t let John’s open staring put him off his stride, but there’s a small sting of disappointment in his chest when John suddenly turns his head away. His mind obsessively records the flash of embarrassment in John’s eyes, replacing the previous glow of admiration Sherlock had been thoroughly enjoying (not that he’d admit it, even to himself).

In spite of himself, Sherlock had been too curious not to read the upside down file in Mycroft’s hands this morning when the insufferable prat advised him there would be new security personnel coming on board today. Mycroft had been holding it that way deliberately, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t be able to resist observing and permanently memorising its contents. This is how his mind works; hungrily seeking and absorbing any information his eyes fall upon. His work in the archives does help keep his relentless brain from tearing itself to pieces inside his head, but he’s never really had anyone to share his brilliance with except Mrs Hudson, and she rarely has time. He loves to show off; loves to show how clever he is, to make connections and draw conclusions amongst the chaos of the old papers and long-forgotten secrets he finds in the library.

John had been watching him closely, clearly too much of an idiot to understand what was being said, but appreciative all the same. This was new to Sherlock. Usually when he bursts into a lengthy explanation of anything he’s deduced, he’s met with annoyance or hostility at interrupting the crushingly, pathetically boring progress of normal people’s lives. Mrs Hudson never dismisses him of course, but everyone else just sighs or tells him to piss off. Admittedly his timing is not always quite right, he does tend to miss (ignore completely) clues about the receptiveness of his audience.

And perhaps the experiment with his ability to conform in social situations could’ve gone better. The birthday party for Mike Stamford had seemed like the opportunity and Lestrade had insisted on making a nuisance of himself until Sherlock acquiesced to “joining in for once.” He’d practically dragged Sherlock there, and planted him next to one of the administrators. Molly was quiet, shy and efficient at her job (single for three years, two sisters much more physically attractive than her, small ginger cat, likely with a tedious name like Toby or Mittens, at home). She also had something of a soft spot for the security chief, and he’d instantly deduced her desire for Lestrade to notice her. He’d attempted to be polite, as he’d known was expected of him, and when Molly expressed an interest in his archival work he’d been genuine in his desire to share his latest find (and to show off, of course). In hindsight describing, in detail, a Soviet research paper he’d found on a synthetic poison designed to incapacitate by inducing violent stomach spasms when Molly had a mouthful of birthday cake wasn’t his best idea. Once she’d involuntarily showered a senior colleague with bits of over-baked sponge cake, his desire to continue the experiment had evaporated and he’d contented himself with walking briskly out onto the balcony for a smoke instead. He wouldn’t have even been at the party if not for Lestrade’s misguided attempts to connect him with someone on a “personal level”. For some reason the security chief seemed to think Sherlock was lonely and just needed a bit of encouragement to seek company. That idea had lasted about four minutes and approximately 15g of sponge cake.

Now though, there was John: ex-military, short, deep blue eyes and one ridiculous jumper. Clearly an idiot much like everyone else, but something’s…off. He’s recently discharged, that much is blindingly obvious by his haircut. A doctor who became a soldier; Sherlock can see it in his sure, strong, but gentle hands. Now that’s more interesting. The dichotomy of healing and killing in the same man coupled with the desperate need to help people while placing himself in extremely life-threatening situations. Sherlock can see it’s practically written into his DNA. Ah, so a danger and adrenaline junkie then. That’s not quite it though. There’s something else about him that’s holding Sherlock’s attention; where he’d normally have dismissed John in seconds as another idiot in his space to slow him down. It’s something Sherlock can’t deduce and it’s driving him crazy.

Throughout all this introspection, Sherlock continues his conversation with Ambassador Hudson; but pauses a moment and allows his mind a moment to catch up with itself. Mrs Hudson is smiling at him, saying she’s pleased he’s found work to keep him occupied and is no longer stalking about the building, wildly deducing who’s been using all the blue ballpoint pens, who’s sleeping with who and who’s involved in plots to steal sensitive documents. On second thought, he can (and will) continue blurting those ones out to anyone who’ll listen. He returns her smile with a genuine one of his own. He abhors emotions, feelings get in the way of improving his mind and expanding his knowledge, but he can admit to being fond of this patient, kind old lady with a surprisingly dirty sense of humour. Not many people know about that last part.

He straightens, gathers the notebook and heads back up to the library, stealing a quick glance at John that thankfully seems to go unnoticed. Even if this John Watson can keep up with him, there’s no reason to change any of his habits, characteristics, or anything about who he is. He knows he can be abrasive, insensitive, and surly, and he doesn’t care. He hasn’t needed anyone’s approval for a very long time, and he hasn’t had anyone willing to listen long enough to give it. The small sting flares up in his chest again, where’d that come from? It is rapidly squashed by the thought of what it might be like to hear John’s approval in some way. This new thought generates heat in Sherlock’s stomach, and he quickly squashes that too. Hmm. He might need to possibly file this for examination and deletion later. Regardless, it won’t matter. John will be unable to keep up, or put up with Sherlock’s odd behaviour and cold manner. He will soon leave (storm out), and be on his way back to his dull, little life inside his funny little, (not) boring brain. Sherlock will be alone again with no companions, distractions, or ex-army doctors in silly woolly jumpers. Fine.

Without protection. Good. Alone is his protection. Permissible.

*********************

John steps back as Sherlock brushes past him and back up the stairs to the library. He turns and shrugs apologetically to Mrs Hudson (crap, he already feels responsible for Sherlock’s irascible nature and he’s only known him a few minutes). She smiles back with a strange look in her eyes, as if she’s trying to tell him something he hasn’t quite picked up on yet. She picks up the phone on the side table and begins speaking in yet another language John does not know as he leaves.

He heads back up to the library, opening the heavy door and marvelling at the homely feeling this room already holds for him. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Shit. He must’ve come this way, the stairs don’t lead anywhere else and John didn’t see him dart down a corridor or through another door somewhere. Bollocks! Where the hell has he gone?!

It’s only been a couple of hours since he got this job and so far, it’s going great. Ha, very funny. John has met an ambassador, probably committed some huge error in etiquette by hugging her, barely spoken to his ward (who he’s fast developing a bloody stupid crush on), and managed to lose him completely in a secure government building. Fuck.

He considers going back to try and ask Mrs Hudson where Sherlock might’ve buggered off to, but that would look extraordinarily unprofessional and he’d be escorted off the premises as fast as the laughter at his ineptitude would take him. He looks around the library more closely, deciding to try and find clues as to Sherlock’s location by looking in the last place he saw him. It works with lost keys, why not a lost translator?

John shuffles some of the piles of paper on the desk, trying not to dislodge the precarious balancing act they’re performing, then glances at the sleeping laptop. Maybe he can track him down using search history or something? He taps a key to wake it up…it’s password protected, of course. Shit, bollocks, arse. He shifts the chair behind the desk and spots a small sliver bin behind one of the wooden legs.

He picks it up and begins to rummage, the papers spilling out over the top. There’s probably some kind of filing system to this mess, but lord knows what it is. He’s about to set the bin down again when a packet of nicotine patches catches his eye. Right then, so at some point Sherlock’s tried to give up smoking. Failed though; this packet’s almost full (or close enough) and it’s in the bin. So where would a bloke go for a cheeky ciggie in a building like this? Outside the front steps isn’t an option, although John reckons that wouldn’t stop Sherlock trying. Back or service entrance maybe? But that would mean sharing a shelter with the staff, and if anything’s obvious from the briefing file it’s that Sherlock doesn’t really play well with others. John thinks carefully, and fishes his phone out of his pocket and dials the number Lestrade gave him earlier. He rests his bum on the edge of the desk, his leg aching a little, though it’s not as sore as he thought it would be after climbing up and down all those steps.

“Hi, Greg Lestrade? It’s John, John Watson? I just wondered if you could tell me if there are any balconies in this building? You know, where a guy might sneak off to for a smoke?”

“Ditched you already, has he?” Lestrade chuckles, his voice is conciliatory. “Well, don’t worry, he pretty much pointed behind Anderson’s head, said ‘What’s that?’ and disappeared within thirty seconds of meeting him. Useless twat. Anderson, that is, not Sherlock.”

“Balconies?” prompts John, smiling.

“Oh he’s probably gone to the one at the southwest corner, past the Green Room. Go back down the stairs to the second floor; turn right this time not left, through the double doors and down the corridor til you see the ugly portrait. You’ll know the one I mean. Then turn right again, past the entrance to the Green Room and it’s through the small room on your right. Text me when you find him, I need to talk to both of you about his flat.”

Lestrade rings off and John tries to remember all the directions. He feels a bit out of place wandering through the halls and corridors of this official place, but he has to find Sherlock. If only to tell him off for disappearing, and maybe knock some sense into him. John still doesn’t know the particulars of the threats to Sherlock’s life, but if someone wants you dead it’s a good idea to stay with your security detail; and not hang out in the open air on a balcony off the edge of a building.

Following Lestrade’s directions, he pushes through the door underneath the glowing green exit sign, and feels a rush of cold air cigarette smoke. Sherlock is leaning his long frame against the railings, blowing smoke gently up into the dusk. He’s wearing a long wool coat that emphasises his sharp shoulders and drapes down his body to just below his knees. John wonders if he always looks like a bloody perfectly airbrushed model, all fitted tailoring and pouty looks at the camera. Huh, let’s just stop that train of thought right there, please. John gets out his phone to text Lestrade as requested.

Found him. Where you said he’d be, funnily enough. Meet you in library? - JW

He turns his focus to the panorama behind Sherlock’s head, trying not to lick his lips at the mahogany curls catching the sultry light of the deepening evening around them. The view from this balcony isn’t lost on John and the city stretches out before him like a quilt of glittering lights. He hadn’t realised how high up this would be, or how far across the expanse of the city you’d be able to see. It was pretty spectacular.

Pleasant surroundings notwithstanding, John has a point to make, so he internally draws himself into Captain Watson and opens his mouth to issue a command. Yet before he can do so, Sherlock looks at him and says, “If you’re going to catch flies like that at least face the other way. You’re putting me off.”

John snaps his mouth closed and snorts. “My face is putting you off?”

Sherlock stubs out his cigarette on the railings and lights another. “Yes, your face is putting me off.” Although in a completely different way to Anderson’s, Sherlock thinks.

“What are you thinking about, that I’m putting you off?” John asks. He’s kind of lost momentum here and still wants to give Sherlock a bollocking for disappearing, but his curiosity about what’s going on in that head is getting the better of him. He’s very much unprepared for the answer to his question when it comes.

“You.” Sherlock mutters, irritated. John blinks and tries not to look too puzzled, or at all pleased.

“Um, me?”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, stubs out his cigarette and approaches John like an a hawk descending on an unsuspecting mouse.

“Yes, you,” Sherlock snaps. “Your jumper simply will not do; it’s hideous. If you want to blend in here and go unnoticed by those who wish to do me harm, you’ll have to smarten up. Navy blue would be a good place to start, then you’ll have the appearance of one of the support staff and you’ll look like all of the other idiots in this place. Oh, don’t look like that…practically everyone’s an idiot. If I’m to put up with unnecessary security I’ll make sure it’s as unobtrusive to my thought processes as possible. You must look like you belong here so I can happily ignore your presence and get on with my work.”

John looks down at his jumper. He thinks it’s fairly inoffensive, but admits grudgingly that Sherlock has a point. He does kind of stand out amongst the corporate-looking professionals here, though he thinks he’d fit in perfectly well with the main building security team, even in his “hideous” jumper. Particularly given how many of them are ex-military, like him, or ex-police, like Lestrade.

“Fine,” he sighs, “I’ll try and dig out a suit for tomorrow. Will that do?”

Sherlock snorts derisively, “Certainly not. You will not blend in wearing a misshapen, tatty old suit you last wore to a relative’s wedding some time ago. Brother, perhaps, or cousin? At any rate, you’ll need new attire, something that fits you properly and can cover any firearms or weapons you feel it necessary to carry about your person. Here.” He reaches into his pocket and thrusts a card at John, not waiting to see if John has grasped hold of it before letting go. John quickly closes his hand around it and looks down at the creamy, embossed finish on the card which reads ‘H. Knight & Sons Fine Tailoring’ in raised gold lettering.

“We’ll go first thing tomorrow.” Sherlock has apparently finished smoking, and is fastening the buttons on his long wool coat while walking briskly back into the building. He stops at the door, speaking over his shoulder without looking back. “I believe Lestrade is looking for us, something to do with my living arrangements.” With that he disappears, coat swirling dramatically behind him. John shrugs, sticks the tailor’s card in his jacket pocket and follows Sherlock back inside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is a bit of a show-off, John is impressed, and we find out a little about why Sherlock is under threat in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it - I love playing with these two idiots. Big huge thanks to my beta superblue as always, any crapness etc is mine. 
> 
> PS. Come find me on tumblr if you like, I'm jamlockk there too and I'm just as bonkers (but very friendly!).

They find Lestrade in the library, reclining a little uncomfortably on the sofa and flicking through an old book. He grins at John as they walk in, but quickly frowns at Sherlock. “You do know Captain Watson is here for your protection, Sherlock. You really should stay close to him at all times. These threats against you are pretty explicit, and pretty serious. This guy’s nuts, and yes, that’s my professional opinion.” 

Lestrade’s right, and John should’ve said all that the moment he found Sherlock on the balcony. He puffs himself up a bit and nods sharply and sternly at Sherlock to indicate his agreement. Sherlock rolls his eyes in such an over the top manner that John wonders if he’s ever physically dislodged anything with the movement. He huffs, and sits down at his desk, ignoring Lestrade as he continues to try to impress upon him the seriousness of the threats. 

“We need to talk about your flat at 221B, Sherlock,” Lestrade goes on, “It’s not exactly the safest place in the world, even with John staying there now.” John looks to Lestrade in surprise. He hadn’t even considered he’d have to live with the man he’s looking out for. Crap.

Sherlock, for his part, is looking both uncomfortable and defiant at the same time. “I can’t have disruptions in my home, Lestrade. This is unacceptable. I need space to think, and John’s presence will be a distraction.” Sherlock pretends not to notice the slight quirk of Lestrade’s mouth at that.

John clears his throat and pipes up, “It’s no problem, as long as you have an extra room or something I can stay out of your way. I agree though that I need to be there at all times. Well, not all times, but yeah, near you at all times. I mean within reason, we both need…um…privacy and…I mean it doesn’t bother me, being in close proximity. Um….you know I’ve lived with squaddies in camp. Like, before, in the army…” he trails off, not too sure now what point he’s trying to make. Lestrade is holding back a grin but in deference to John’s ego, he turns back to Sherlock and starts telling him again that even with John there, his flat is unsuitable. 

Suddenly Sherlock looks up at John with those piercing eyes and barks, “How did you know to find me on that balcony? Oh, of course, the nicotine patches. Hm. Obvious.” 

John feels a bit deflated at that, he’d thought it was pretty clever figuring that out when the daft bastard had seemingly vanished into thin air. Apparently, it wasn’t that impressive after all. 

Lestrade waves a hand in annoyance at the deviation in the conversation. “That’s not the point. You shouldn’t just disappear. There could’ve been snipers out there, for God’s sake. The office block over the road is under refurbishment, it wouldn’t take a lot to set up there and just wait for you to stick your head out. It’s the only balcony in the entire building that doesn’t have security glass or fencing or anything.” Lestrade becomes more annoyed as he talks, his face a bit red. “This isn’t the first time something like that has happened either Sherlock; where you’ve buggered off somewhere and got yourself into bother. Granted it wasn’t as serious that time, but the French police were definitely not amused at your little stunt, and neither were Ambassador Hudson or myself for that matter. For fuck’s sake! How would you like to pop out for a quick smoke and have your precious brains blown out all over the railings?” 

John thinks that’s a bit dramatic and Lestrade apparently does too, for he calms down and sighs, running a hand through his hair. There’s a heavy silence filling the room during the next minute or so, as Sherlock pouts and looks defiantly at Lestrade, who glares back. Eventually, Lestrade’s face relaxes a little, though whatever happened in France still weighs on him, John thinks a little sadly. He’s taken a bit of a shine to the man, and is sympathetic to all the stress dealing with Sherlock clearly causes. 

“Look, all I’m getting at here, Sherlock, is that you need to take all this a bit more seriously.” John nods, thinking that before he and Sherlock leave tonight he needs to pin down Lestrade on the exact nature of whatever the ‘all this’ is. He can’t operate to the best of his ability and keep Sherlock safe without knowing what it is he’s up against. He suddenly feels very tired; it has been a hellishly long day. 

Lestrade sighs again, but has made up his mind to leave despite Sherlock’s stubborn refusal to think of his own safety. “Fine, go back at Baker Street. But for fuck’s sake Sherlock, take John with you and let him stay there. John, don’t let him leave without you. I don’t care if you have to handcuff yourself to him, make sure the mad bastard takes you with him when he heads home tonight.” John’s not entirely sure if Lestrade is joking about the handcuffs. The security chief seems to have aged a decade the course of the conversation. As he leaves the room, Lestrade turns back to Sherlock, his eyes and expression softened. 

“You may not place much value on your life, Sherlock, but there are those that do. If we’re really lucky, you’ll show us that you can not only be a great man, but a good one too.”

With that, Lestrade is gone, and the door closes softly. Sherlock’s face is unreadable.

“What did he mean by that?” John asks quietly, not expecting an answer, and he doesn’t get one. He looks back up at Sherlock and whatever he might’ve seen on his face is gone, vanished behind a mask of distant coldness. 

“We’ll go back to Baker Street shortly, and then tomorrow we will visit with Mr Knight to make sure you are properly outfitted before we come back here. I have legal documents to translate for Ambassador Hudson tomorrow, so bring a book or something if you are to insist on being present while I work. I’ll have a chair brought up from storage for you. You can sit by the window, or by the bookshelves.” Sherlock nods at John dismissively, closes his laptop and thrusts it into John’s hands.

He then turns and stalks out of the room, leaving John no choice but to follow behind quickly. He’s a bit apprehensive, and he knows there’s more going on here than he’s been made aware of. Sherlock may think he’s an idiot, but he’s not that stupid. Eager to finally see the flat at 221B Baker Street, he pulls the library doors closed and makes his way downstairs. 

**********************

Sherlock is standing in front of the building as John exits, his blue-green eyes languidly roaming over the passersby. As John reaches his side he strides forward, arm outstretched. Within seconds a car is waiting for them, seemingly conjured from thin air. Sherlock climbs inside and instructs the driver as John slides in behind him. The car slowly pulls away from the embassy and into the traffic. John has no idea how long the journey will take, and Sherlock has lapsed into silence, his hands pressed together below his chin, elbows resting on his knees. John wants to ask him about the nature of the threats, wants to ask him what happened in France, just wants to talk to him, but is unsure where to start. The low rumble of that wonderful voice interrupts his train of thought. 

“Go ahead, you’ve got questions.” John is stumped for a moment, but decides to go with the most pressing question first. “Why is your life under threat?” he asks. Sherlock hums, sits back against the soft leather of the seat and picks imaginary lint from the edge of his coat before speaking. 

“As you know I am responsible for translating all of Mrs Hudson’s correspondence from a variety of sources. Normally, there would be need for an entire staff of linguists but my skills are more than sufficient for anything she requires. Last week I became aware of some documents that had been personally delivered for the attention of the ambassador. Naturally I wanted to intercept them with a view to perusing the content and distilling the relevant points into a summary. As I was approaching the guard delivering them to her desk, I noticed his fingers.” 

“Fingers?” John interrupts, confused. “Yes, his fingers, now shut up and let me continue.” Sherlock snaps. John holds his hands up in mock surrender, but somehow feels like his interruption was less of an issue than Sherlock’s automatic rebuke implies. 

Sherlock goes on, “His fingers kept drifting to his left trouser pocket, and judging by the bulge approximately five by three inches in size he had a new phone in there, additional to the personal one in his left inside jacket pocket. He was new, I hadn’t catalogued him before and though he seemed to know his way around the building he can’t have been on the payroll for longer than a few days. He was also nervous, more so than a new guard should appear to be, and was doing an appalling job hiding it. How it went unnoticed by Lestrade’s minions I do not know. Regardless, given his demeanour I decided to monitor his actions unobtrusively rather than approach him directly. He entered the Ambassador’s office through the main door and laid the papers on the desk. The phone in his jacket pocket vibrated, and as he answered the call I observed from my position at the side door we used earlier, that he had removed the extra phone and placed it amongst the files. He spoke in whispered tones in answer to the distorted voice on the phone, and I notified Lestrade that there was an explosive device on the premises. The guard was apprehended before the device had chance to detonate and the explosive was easily removed. It was a crude device, designed to create a distraction so that the guard could snap the Ambassador’s neck prior to her escort arriving to transport her to a safe location. The phone remained intact until security services attempted to open it. My warnings about the small amount of acid wired inside the casing had gone unheeded, and subsequently, any intelligence it may have provided has been irrevocably lost. Idiots.” 

John is stunned. If not for Sherlock’s observational skills, there would’ve been a major diplomatic crisis. Assassination attempts were rare as far as John knew but whoever had set the plan in motion had had the insight to make sure the assassin got past the most stringent security checks, and onto the Ambassador’s staff. Chills trickle down John’s spine and his fists clench at the thought of Mrs Hudson come to harm. 

Sherlock looks away with a faint smile on his face at his protector’s reaction to the plot against Mrs Hudson. John has formed an attachment to her quickly, a lady he has only just met. Despite his own dismissal of sentiment, he can recognise its value in the bonds shared by others. People need others around them, friends, family, colleagues, lovers. Tedious. Perhaps he underestimated John initially. 

“So this guard was stopped before he ever had chance to act? Just because you noticed his fingers?” John sounds a little incredulous. “Yes.” Sherlock answers. “That’s….. extraordinary.” Sherlock pauses, looks at John to see if he’s taking the piss. “Really?” John’s smile is genuine, “Yes, it’s amazing, truly….. extraordinary.” Sherlock tries not to preen from John’s praise and fails miserably. They turn to look at one another, smiling, and pass the rest of the journey in companionable silence. 

The car shortly draws up in front of a tall, white building, the glossy black front door bearing brass numbers proudly stating “221B”. Sherlock is out of the car and at the door, pulling keys from his pocket, and John clambers out awkwardly, trying to ignore the twinge in his leg. Sherlock’s intense gaze flicks down to John’s leg and back to the door in a blink, but he says nothing. Holding the door open, he and John step through into the cosy hallway. As they head towards the stairs to Sherlock’s flat, the ground floor door opens and out steps a beautiful, glamorous woman. Her dark hair is elegantly styled, and she’s wearing a fitting cream dress and black heels. She smiles seductively at Sherlock and John, her eyes dancing with mischief, as she sashays out of the front door. Sherlock rolls his eyes again and huffs, climbing the stairs to the first floor. John swallows, unsure what to make of that, and swiftly follows. 

Upstairs Sherlock pushes through the door to reveal a comfy, homely room. A large sofa is against one wall, there are two chairs beside the fireplace and as Sherlock explains, an extra bedroom above. Sherlock’s bedroom and the small bathroom are along the hallway, beyond the kitchen space. There is clutter, paperwork, books and other debris scattered everywhere, much like the environment of the library, but John instantly feels at home. “This could be…. Yeah, this is nice.” John says. Sherlock mumbles and fusses a bit, making a show of attempting to tidy up a bit while just moving bits and pieces around, including jabbing a sharp blade through the post on the mantelpiece. “Is that a skull?!” John exclaims, Sherlock nods. “Just a friend. Well….”, he grins. “Right then,” John casts a quick eye over the rest of the living area and into the kitchen, “I better assess the entry and exit points, and any other risk factors in here.” He remembers this is supposed to just be a job, and the thought creates a cloud in his mind. Sherlock’s face has returned to that cold haughtiness he wore when they first met, and he nods curtly before removing himself to his bedroom. 

John makes a show of checking the entry, fire escape and windows of the small flat, before making his way downstairs to reconnoitre any other exterior access points. The alley behind the building has bins and what looks like the remains of a pot of petunias, but not much else. Apart from the fire escape and bedroom windows, there’s no real dangers for undetected ingress. John wonders why Lestrade objected so strongly to Sherlock remaining there, then realises it is because he didn’t expect Sherlock to welcome John into his home. John has no doubt that Sherlock will ditch him again and bugger off somewhere without telling him, but is pleased to have apparently been accepted by a man deemed so obnoxious by those around him. He heads back up to the flat after conducting one more cursory check, just in case. 

Sherlock has changed from his suit into loose pyjamas and a blue silk dressing gown, and is sitting in the black leather chair beside the fireplace, idly plucking the strings of the violin in his lap. His gaze is distant and unfocused. He was listening to John’s movements around the flat and outside, following the progress of his pointless checks. Sherlock’s mind is too occupied by Captain John Watson, and it irks him. John returns to the sitting room, says something about what he’s been doing and maybe getting some food. Sherlock registers what is being said, but his eyes linger on John’s tanned face, the sprinkling of grey in his hair, the curve of his mouth. John has stopped speaking and Sherlock is still looking at him, silently cataloguing his features in the new John rooms of his mind palace. His eyes crinkle gently at the edges as he frowns at Sherlock’s lack of response, and Sherlock is fascinated by the striking depth of blue in those irises. He catches himself wondering what those eyes look like in different lights, what they might reveal of the man as he smiles, cries, laughs. Sherlock shakes his head. This is a worryingly consuming train of thought, and he looks up to discover John has apparently said goodnight and gone upstairs. Musing, Sherlock turns back to his violin.

***********************

Trying to get ready for bed and settle in for a night spent half-awake listening for suspicious noises in an unfamiliar environment, John’s mind keeps turning to the sight which greeted him on coming back up the stairs, Sherlock in pyjamas and dressing gown, violin in his lap, his intense eyes focused somewhere behind John’s head. John is again taken slightly aback at the poise and elegance with which Sherlock carries himself. It shouldn’t work so well, John thinks, all jaunty angles, aquamarine eyes and rich, dark curls, but bloody hell it does. “So… um, I’ve checked everything I can think of. If there’s nothing else, I’ll go up to bed. Er…. Goodnight, Sherlock..” Sherlock had barely moved, simply redirected his gaze to connect with John’s, almost looking through him. John had shifted a little, not sure if he should try and engage Sherlock further or just retreat. In the end he’d chosen retreat, he’s pretty sure Sherlock had no idea he’d been speaking to him and cared even less. So far he’d seemed to put up with John’s presence by his side but it had only been a few hours. Maybe this was Sherlock’s way of working out how best to rid himself of his “pointless protection detail.” He hopes that isn’t the case, but there’s no telling really how Sherlock will react to a full day with John chasing him around, taking up space in the library and just… being there. 

John sighs as he settles into the small bed, his Sig nestled safely under the spare pillow. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep it, but Lestrade didn’t seem to mind and John felt better knowing he had access to deadly force should circumstances make it necessary. It’s not about inflicting harm, or having an incredible power over another life; for John it’s simply about ensuring he can do everything he can to keep those in his care safe. 

He slowly drifts into a light but restful sleep, one ear on the soft sounds of pacing and violin music coming from below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow build, more action to come soon I promise!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John is purdy, Sherlock notices how purdy John is but doesn't notice how purdy John thinks he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hunners o' thanks to superblue, as usual (always awesome). Crapness etc all author's own. Thanks also to everyone who's reading this, your lovely comments and little kudos make me happier than a pig in shit. Also, please note edited the tags a bit as things came out a little different than I originally thought. Also also, confirmed chapter count now... 
> 
> PS. Come find me on tumblr, I'm jamlockk there too and I'm stupidly friendly.

John wakes early, feeling more content than he has in a long time, and opens a bleary eye to take in his surroundings: grey-green walls, a slim shaft of sunlight from the chink in the curtains…oh yeah, Sherlock’s flat. 

He scrubs a hand down his face; he should’ve gone back to his bedsit last night to pick up his toothbrush and fresh clothes. He remembers Sherlock’s vicious denunciation of his harmless woolly jumper and insistence that John acquire a suit in navy blue, and huffs a laugh. Perhaps it’s just as well he hadn’t bothered. He’d been too eager to get going on a new job anyway, as he recalled. He’d remembered to pick up his Sig but not his toothbrush, and didn’t want to think too deeply about the implications of that. 

John gets out of bed and stretches, listening for signs of life in the living areas below. He hears nothing as he pulls on his jeans and shirt, giving the jumper a wide berth and a rueful smile. He heads downstairs after conducting a cursory check to fulfil his security duties and finds Sherlock reclining on the sofa, hands pressed together under his chin.

“Is that three nicotine patches on your arm?” John exclaims, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock hums in confirmation and replies. “Helps me think…ran out of cigarettes.” 

John is unsympathetic, and thinks about giving Sherlock a doctorly talk about the importance of respiratory health, before his rumbling stomach rudely interrupts. “Any chance of breakfast?” he asks a little hesitantly. 

Sherlock waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the kitchen and John figures that’s as much of an invitation as he’s going to get. He finds some elderly fruit, a small handful of soft cereal and a viscous substance which must’ve been milk at some point. Right then; he turns back around as Sherlock rises from the sofa, shrugging on his heavy wool coat. 

“Wait a second; I’m supposed to accompany you. I’ll just grab a coffee and a pastry on the way to…wherever.” John makes to dash upstairs and grab his jacket, shoes (and weapon), but halts in the doorway. 

Sherlock is looking at him expectantly, with a hint of amusement and transparent innocence on his face. John is not fooled and holds those eyes with his own until Sherlock murmurs, “You require a suit and a tailor owes me a favour.” John nods, smiling, retrieves what he needs and together they head out to the waiting driver.

**********************

“Are you sure about this?” John stands, practically hiding, behind a heavy mink-coloured curtain, self-consciousness practically dripping from his voice. Sherlock is increasingly restless, and paces in the main shop area. 

“Yes, of course I’m sure. You must fit in until the investigation is completed and the threat has expired,” he mutters dismissively. Why is John being so recalcitrant about this? 

Mr Knight lingers a short distance out of the way from Sherlock’s pacing, lightly drumming his fingers on the table top. John finally steps out from behind the curtain, and Sherlock’s mouth drops slightly open. He feels as if all of the oxygen has been sucked from the room. John looks….exquisite. 

The navy blue material compliments his dark eyes perfectly, and enhances the golden blonde of his hair. His shy, boyish grin radiates warmth that Sherlock thinks he even feels on his own face, which is patently ridiculous. The cut of the suit conceals and yet somehow emphasises the sturdy, solid strength of the man inside. Mr Knight walks over to John and is makes tiny, unnecessary adjustments, wittering about how well this works. John is embarrassed, and giggles nervously. 

When John giggles, the warmth in Sherlock’s chest is back again; not to mention unfamiliar warmth further down as well. This is inexplicable. It’s almost as though his mind is unable to correctly process the data it’s receiving and is currently shutting down. It’s just John Watson in a suit, why has Sherlock’s transport suddenly taken the wheel? He belatedly realises John is looking at him, probably wondering why he’s catching flies and staring. Sherlock clears his throat, curtly nods his approval and moves away, mistrustful of how his voice may sound. 

Mr Knight turns to John and winks. “I can have this ready in half an hour or so, just a few minor alterations to a couple of the seams and you’re good to go. I assume you want to add it to your brother’s tab, Mr Holmes?” Sherlock merely grunts his assent. 

Mr Knight gives John a wry smile, and gestures for him to return behind the curtain and change. John grins back, and once he’s back in his old clothes he walks over to Sherlock and taps his shoulder gently. Sherlock startles, and is instantly furious with his body for reacting in any manner to John’s proximity. 

“So, coffee and a pastry then?” John’s smile is contagious and Sherlock finds he’s reciprocating before he knows it. He vows to get his body back under control as soon as humanly possible as they leave Mr Knight’s and make for a nearby café. 

*********************** 

John is bemused by, but not at all disappointed, in Sherlock’s reactions to the suit. He initially felt pretty daft, wearing a suit which no doubt cost more than his parents’ first house, and waiting behind a curtain to be revealed like a dating show contestant. When he’d eventually stepped out Sherlock had just stared at him, his lips slightly parted. An expression of some kind had flickered across his face so fast John hadn’t been able to identify it before it was gone, and Sherlock was nodding and turning his back. 

Mr Knight seemed to think it was approval, for he was immediately tugging at the material and talking to Sherlock about adjustments and his brother’s tab (whatever that meant). John had changed back into his comfortable old togs, and walked back out to find Sherlock unmoved, standing with his back to the shop. 

John tapped him gently on the shoulder to get his attention, and Sherlock spun around so quickly John took a half-step back. Sherlock seemed alarmed at his touch, and John felt his chest constrict at the thought of Sherlock being repelled by the contact. He resolved not to let the crush he was now sure he harboured towards this man get in the way of his professionalism and smiled as cover. Sherlock returned the gesture, and John felt lighter somehow as they entered the café for breakfast. 

Choosing a table in the back, away from windows and where he has a clear line of sight to both exits, John sits down with Sherlock opposite him. Sherlock’s face is passive again, as if his thoughts have run off to hide somewhere in his mind, and he’s busy chasing them down. John orders a stack of pancakes for himself and tea for them both, content to wait it out until Sherlock returns to the present again. He’s almost finished the pot when Sherlock’s eyes seem to focus, and he looks down at his now stone-cold tea. He reaches for the mug and lifts it before pulling a face and setting it down again. John laughs, and motions for the waitress to bring a fresh pot. Sherlock smiles gratefully and takes a sip, before pulling another face and heaping sugar into it. John laughs again, which Sherlock challenges.

“What?” 

John snickers, “I’m just not too surprised at you pouring half a bag of sugar into your tea, it’s about all I’ve seen you eat in the last day or so. You really should take better care of yourself, you know. You can’t survive on just sugary tea, cigarettes and whatever the hell that substance was I found in your fridge this morning. When was the last time you actually had a proper meal?” 

Sherlock seems to consider this, then pipes up, “What day is it today?” John snorts, and shakes his head. He hadn’t thought he’d need to take on caring duties on this job, but Sherlock clearly neglects his basic needs on a regular basis. John decides he should make an effort to instil good habits in Sherlock during the brief time he is responsible for this bloody bonkers bloke. 

“It’s Tuesday, and we’re having a proper dinner tonight. Don’t care what it is, but you have to eat something more substantial. I can cook for you if you like?” The words are out of John’s mouth before he has time to think. Damn, that wasn’t supposed to sound so much like a date. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice, just nods as he beckons the waitress to bring the bill. Sherlock is climbing into that coat again as John hands over the notes. John curses himself for slipping even just a little bit, and thinks he’ll have to make sure he’s more guarded in future. He’s sure that there’s no hope any attraction might be mutual, after all he’s just an ordinary, unremarkable former Army Captain with nightmares and a dodgy leg. Sherlock is….. well, Sherlock. There isn’t a sufficient superlative in the English language, or any language, John thinks. 

They collect John’s brand new suit, the driver hanging it from a hook in the back, and the car turns towards the embassy. 

************* 

The rest of the day passes in comfortable silence. Several times Sherlock surreptitiously looks up from his laptop to watch John as he potters about the old library, picking up books to read, leafing through the various papers Sherlock has scattered around the room and manages not to disturb the disorganised organisation Sherlock uses. More than once John calls down for a pot of tea and some biscuits, and at some point a small tray of sandwiches appears. Sherlock drinks cups of tea, ladling sugar into them until he catches John’s amused smile, and huffs petulantly. John says nothing, just continues to smile and goes back to his book. The atmosphere in the library is almost cosy and John seems content in Sherlock’s presence. He is unruffled by the constant quiet and doesn’t feel the need to fill it. This is puzzling and is something Sherlock has not experienced before.

He marvels at how John manages to surprise him again, to not be boring, and the warmth in his belly unfurls once more. These recurring interruptions of his transport when he is focused on John is becoming more than a nuisance. He harshly chastises his body, forcing it back under control as he bends his head once more to the translation on the screen. Although complex, the translation does not require all of his faculties and he is free to indulge in the occasional diversion John provides without detriment to his work. 

The daylight wanes as morning becomes afternoon, and gradually a deepening evening light filters in through the large window. John fastidiously checks the windows and doors, his Sig nestled in the holster acquired from Lestrade on his right side. The embassy is growing quiet, the administration staff heading home at their usual time. 

“All seems normal,” John chirps. “Ready to go?” 

Sherlock stands and stretches, rubbing the nape of his neck and nods. He collects his coat and follows John out of the building. As they reach the pavement and the ubiquitous car, he observes John’s eyes roaming over the passers-by. John is on guard, alert to any threats that might make themselves known, and Sherlock becomes aware of his proximity. Unbidden, his transport once again begins to respond physically to John, and Sherlock thinks dully that this is a maddening itch he will be eventually compelled to scratch. The drive back to Baker Street is spent furiously battling the twin desires to be alone as soon as possible, and to spend as much time with John close by as he can. 

On returning to the flat, John locks the doors and checks the windows, ever cautious and aware, then bumbles into the kitchen to cook dinner. Sherlock tells him he is going for a shower and makes directly for the bathroom. The rush of the water in his ears helps drown out the maelstrom in his mind and he takes himself in hand, clamping his teeth down on the other to stifle any noise. The release leaves Sherlock feeling weak and disgruntled with the interference of his body’s needs, but he is sated and the itch dies down. He dresses quickly and walks back to the kitchen to the sounds and smells of a meal being prepared. If John notices Sherlock took a little longer in the shower (unlikely), he makes no mention of it. 

John’s cooking is wonderfully fragrant, and despite himself Sherlock feels a small pang of hunger. He flops into a kitchen chair as John places a plate piled high with vegetables and rice in front of him. 

“It’s pretty simple but tasty,” John indicates the plate with his fork. He sits across from Sherlock with an equally full plate and a bottle of beer from the fridge.

“Well, stick in til ye stick oot, as my granny would say!” John chuckles, before taking a hearty mouthful of food. Sherlock follows suit, and is delighted by the wonderfully seasoned, soft vegetables and tangy rice on his tongue. They chat quietly about spices and recipes from around the world as they eat; and it transpires that John is almost as well-travelled as Sherlock himself, taking in three continents. With their stomachs full, they retire to the chairs at the fireplace. Sherlock settles into the smooth black leather while John relaxes in the squashy plaid. A few moments pass; John sips his second beer and Sherlock watches the firelight dance through the golden strands of John’s hair. 

“Just ask. You have been planning to say something all day, all evening. Just ask.” There’s no irritation in his voice as Sherlock breaks the silence, startling John from his mild drowsiness. 

He has got a question on his mind, but is happy to let it go unsaid for fear of breaking the contented comfort pervading the room. He clears his throat, ignoring Sherlock’s exaggerated eye roll. 

“Why are you so unconcerned about these threats?” he asks, “How can you so easily ignore them?”

Sherlock sighs, and for a moment John wonders if he will actually answer. Sherlock’s eyes focus on the fireplace when he finally speaks. “I am unconcerned because I do not believe there to be danger. I am well protected by your presence and by the security teams at the embassy, and I will continue to focus on my work. I consider myself married to my work, it has been the sole pursuit of my life, and I see no reason to alter that.”  
He shrugs, before adding, “Besides, I do not have anything to tie me to this life, such as it is. Mrs Hudson would notice my absence, as would Lestrade and my insufferable brother, but I cannot imagine that having any lingering impact.” 

John chokes on his beer. Did he hear that right? Sherlock thinks he wouldn’t be missed if some arsehole managed to get a lucky shot in?! The way Sherlock delivers this little speech, his voice and manner detached and almost clinical, gives John chills. 

“Sherlock… I’m sure that can’t be true!” John splutters. “I mean, how can you think that you wouldn’t be missed?” 

Sherlock looks perplexed, and considers John’s outburst. John watches closely, trying and failing to guess at what’s going through that head. Sherlock frowns, his face unreadable. 

“Well, perhaps I underestimate my value. Emotions, sentiment, are not my strong suit. In any language,” he mutters.

John feels a deep sadness constrict his chest, and fights an urge to gather Sherlock in his arms and press him close to loosen the tightness. Instead, he says quietly, “You have more value than you think. Emotion might not be your forte, but you do matter.” 

This is getting a little difficult. John might at least be able to recognise emotions but he can’t say he’s any good at handling them. He never has been particularly adept at expressing himself, and he’s already exposed more of his feelings than he feels is wise. He gets up from the chair, and unintentionally stands at parade rest. Sherlock lapses into thoughtful silence again, gazing into the dying fire. John turns to go upstairs, making sure to check the doors one last time. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” John pauses at the foot of the stairs, almost doesn’t hear the soft reply. 

“Goodnight, John.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things take an unpleasant turn...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta is the best, as always. I love you all for reading this!

The sand gets everywhere, that much John remembers. His t-shirt and fatigues feel dusty, his boots, freshly polished that morning, are slightly scuffed at the toes. They’re standing at the foot of the bed now, with his weapon and the rest of his pack (ammunition, armour, etc.), stashed safely underneath. His tags clink softly as he strips, setting his clothing aside on the floor. It’s a two-man tent and he lowers himself gently into the camp bed, shuffling in beside his bunkmate. The man stirs a little drowsily, and reaches back to wrap John’s arm across his chest. John moves closer, holding the long, lithe frame against his smaller one. John knows this peace can’t last; that tomorrow and the days after they will be back out on patrol. The time he has now, though, he can cherish. His companion thinks he’ll be transferred soon, to another unit. Until then, John will take what he can and remember it fondly. 

He breathes in deeply. The scent is warm and clean and reminds John of when he first entered the old library. He slides his hand up into soft, rich curls, smoothing them through his fingers, listening to the gentle, contented sigh that escapes those full lips. He leans up and…

John wakes with a start, feeling a tightness in his pyjamas that reminds him of his schooldays. That memory, he’s had that dream before, he thinks. Only this time, something was different. There was a scent, familiar and comforting but completely out of place in the Afghan desert. There was dark curly hair where there should’ve been short, rough blonde. Oh Christ, John thinks, rubbing a hand fiercely across his face. Well, this isn’t entirely unexpected, but still very unprofessional to develop any kind of attachment to your ward. A courteous atmosphere, by all means, some might even say friendly. This, though…

Groaning, he sits up, and listens carefully for any sounds in the flat that might indicate Sherlock is awake; none come. The sky outside is still turning pink as the sun rises and all is quiet. John sighs, his mind still lingering on the dream. He shifts his weight a little, willing the daylight to chase the dream away, and trying to re-arrange his body into a comfortable position. It’s not working, though, and he lies back in the bed with a huff of annoyance. His hand wanders to his pyjamas, the scent of Sherlock fresh in his nostrils. John wonders what those sleek fingers would feel like in place of his own. Would they be soft? With a touch that’s gentle and caring? Or passionate and firm? John knew they’d certainly be dextrous and skilled, with calloused tips on his left hand from playing the violin. He stifles a moan into the pillow, his release warm in his fist. Bit not good…that.

********

Soon, Sherlock and the driver are ready to leave, and John tucks his Sig into his holster, joining them on the stairs. As they walk down silently, Sherlock notices John glancing at him as if worried about something. He pays it no mind as he is currently focused on the driver, who seems different somehow. God knows he has no idea what this one’s name is. His shoelaces are tied neatly but his tie is slightly rumpled, he must have put it on in the car on the way to pick them up; hair is cropped short and neat, like John’s, only more severe. When waiting, he unconsciously stands at parade rest also like John; hands firm but seemingly cold somehow. He’s ex-military again, then, but still very different from John.  
John Watson, who carries a hint of danger about him, covered with an unassuming exterior. This man is approachable but distant, there’s a spark in his eyes that would discourage mothers with small children from getting too close. He is equal in height to Sherlock, though his broad, muscular build makes him appear significantly heavier. Sherlock wonders for a brief moment if the driver is the actual protection detail, and John merely the stand-in. He shakes the thought from his head. The driver may be bulky and probably good in a fight, but Sherlock is naturally mistrustful, and senses a brutish nature. 

Besides, John is superbly intriguing…and attractive. The navy suit complements him perfectly, highlighting his golden colouring and hinting at the hidden strength below the soft material. Sherlock hears Mycroft’s snort echo in his mind palace, and mentally shoves a slice of Victoria sponge in his brother’s cake-hole. 

******* 

John looks up from his book and sits up straighter on the couch. Sherlock is entranced by the documents around him and whatever he’s reading on the laptop screen. The screen’s glow is illuminating, casting shadows across the sharp planes and smooth contours of his face; concentration alive in his wonderful eyes. John thinks he looks his most ethereal like this, mumbling softly to himself as he dissects the words and phrases in front of him and transforms them into new structures. His mouth is constantly moving, soundlessly forming shapes John can’t understand, but could watch for hours. 

Regretfully, John tears his eyes away from the figure at the desk. He stands, stretches, then pauses for a moment. Sherlock is lost in some linguistic tangle, scribbling unseen on a notepad and now frowning at the screen. It’s lunchtime, and John knows Sherlock is too absorbed to make a conscious choice to eat something. If the last couple of days have taught him anything, it’s that Sherlock rarely manages to remember how important food is for the human body. He smiles fondly. 

“I’m starving…be back in a few minutes. Stay away from the window and make sure the door is secured.” 

Sherlock isn’t listening; he’s too intensely engaged in his work. John sighs and tries again, using a touch of the Captain voice. 

“Sherlock, I’m trusting you not to pull something daft and disappear off for a quick smoke while I’m gone.” The figure at the desk quirks slightly at the tone of his voice, but still doesn’t seem to respond, verbally or otherwise. John decides to take stronger action, crossing the floor of the library and approaching the desk. He turns the chair with his foot and brings his hand to Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock looks startled; his eyes wide and lips parted. John seems to have his attention now, and feels his chest thump a little faster. He unconsciously licks his lips, and doesn’t notice Sherlock’s eyes drop to his mouth for a fraction of a second before refocusing on John. 

“I’m just going to get some food. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Stay away from the windows, secure the door, and don’t do anything stupid,” John says softly but firmly. He resists a sudden urge to caress the man’s cheek, but releases his hand from Sherlock’s face and steps smartly from the room, swinging the heavy door shut behind him. 

Out in the hallway he takes a few seconds to compose himself. He hadn’t meant to get in Sherlock’s space like that, and he’d been unprepared for his own reaction to proximity to him. He has to get over this stupid crush, and fast, if he’s ever going to be able to protect Sherlock from any kind of unexpected danger. He is Sherlock’s hired muscle, after all; he can’t get flustered like a lovestruck teenager when he needs to be clear-headed. He mentally shakes himself off, and heads downstairs to the canteen to grab a couple of sandwiches…and maybe some biscuits. He’s not keen on leaving Sherlock unguarded for any length of time, and in his haste he barely registers the other security guard emerging quietly from a locked cupboard on the second floor. He definitely doesn’t notice the guard’s nervous glance up to the library, or the way he’s sweating despite the cool air in the embassy. 

******** 

Sherlock sits, frozen in his chair, and can still feel John’s hand on his cheek.  
John’s hand. John’s soft, strong hand; warm and calloused from handling his gun. The heat in his chest at John’s physical closeness had taken Sherlock completely by surprise, so much so that he’d instantly forgotten what he was working on and could see, hear and feel only John. It’s fascinating…that John’s presence in his space had not only quieted his relentless mind, but narrowed it to one sole point of reference. Sherlock decides this must be repeated; so he can test the variables and make certain it is only John that is capable of this astounding feat. 

He is contemplating how to get close to John again without his transport betraying him, when he hears the door to the library creak open again. He looks up sharply, expecting to see his marvellous John returning with lunch. His mind effortlessly swings back into action at the sight of someone he can’t immediately place. He quickly catalogues the security guard’s stance (nervous but determined), eyes (darting around but not unfocused), and right hand (trigger finger twitching ever so minutely at the holster on his belt). Sherlock takes a deep breath, knowing that John is nearby but unsure how long this twitchy guard will take before making his move. 

He stays seated at the desk, as it will provide minimal cover, but is better than nothing. The guard seems to make a decision, taking in a breath and drawing his shoulders back. He removes his gun, not standard embassy issue, Sherlock idly notes, from its holster. He aims directly at Sherlock’s forehead, and at this distance, is unlikely to miss. The gun quivers a little, and time seems to slow down as Sherlock gazes down the barrel. 

Suddenly there is a sharp, deafening crack, the crash of breaking glass, and the harsh smell of cordite. Sherlock is momentarily dazed. He finds he’s involuntarily ducking under the desk, and can hear grunting and papers being kicked and shuffled about on the floor. There’s a horrid thunk as metal collides with bone, and the room goes silent. 

Downstairs, he hears chaos. There’s shouting into radios and many pairs of feet pounding up towards the library. Sherlock still can’t seem to make sense of what’s happening; until he feels a firm hand on his shoulder and an arm around his waist, lifting him easily from the floor and back into the chair. John is holding his face again, with both hands this time. Sherlock lets himself feel comforted, for once, and breathes John in. 

The racket continues as Lestrade barrels into the library, yelling at his subordinates to grab the handcuffs and, “Get him the fuck out of my sight, right fucking now!” 

John releases Sherlock’s face, speaks to Lestrade, telling him what happened and assuring him that Sherlock is unhurt. Sherlock comes back to himself and is immediately embarrassed at his reaction. 

“Where the hell were you then? You’re supposed to be my protection detail and you wandered off to fill your stomach and let this armed idiot into the library to shoot at me!” He gestures furiously to the unconscious guard on the floor, now cuffed and about to be hauled away by Lestrade’s team. 

“And you! You and your team are clearly incapable of handling simple background checks on your own staff!” Sherlock turns on Lestrade, fury in full swing now and unable to stop himself. “Perhaps I should just acquire a gun myself, seeing as you two are completely incompetent!” He storms angrily from the room, pushing John’s outstretched hand away. 

“Let him by,” Lestrade says to his team; then turns to John, “He’ll be heading for the balcony though. You’d better try and follow him.” John nods sullenly, adrenaline still singing in his veins, and hurries after the furious translator. 

****** 

John finds Sherlock where he expects, the same balcony, the same spot as before. Only this time there’s no long figure leaning against the railings, languidly blowing smoke into a glowing sky. This time, his body is taut, rigid, the eyes seem cloudy, the bottom lip reddened from unconscious grazing.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is soft; just because he’s used to violence doesn’t mean everyone around him is. It’s not every day that a man with a gun tries to make an extra hole in your head. He approaches Sherlock carefully, moving so that he can been clearly observed, hands held out in an open, non-defensive way. Sherlock is unmoving, seemingly lost in his mind. John says his name again, slightly louder this time, and the cloudiness seems to slowly lift from his eyes. 

“Juh…. John?” Sherlock mumbles. John places a hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder, the touch appears to steady the rattled translator. “I’m so sorry,” John sighs, “I should’ve been there. I… I’m sorry.” He’s incensed that anyone got that close to Sherlock, furious with himself for missing what he should’ve seen, for being so deep inside his own head. Sherlock turns, John’s hand falls from his shoulder. The loss of contact causes a tiny twinge in John’s chest, but he steadfastly ignores it. 

“I didn’t take it seriously. I treated it as a game. It’s always a game. Now I realise there is something more serious to this. I’ve been in situations before, there’s been trouble stirring, but not like this. I reacted…poorly.” Sherlock shakes his head sadly, apparently disappointed with himself. “Apologies,” he murmurs. 

Johns huffs a laugh, rubs a hand through his hair. “Your reaction was perfectly normal, Sherlock. This was my fault, I’m just glad I came back in time to tackle the bastard to the floor. I shouldn’t say this as a doctor, but I hope he has a fucking prize lump on his head from where I clocked him with my gun.” Sherlock smiles, “I’m glad you came back in time too, John. And I wholeheartedly agree about the lump.” John sniggers, and Sherlock’s grin grows wider.

“Well I for one am unimpressed.” Mycroft’s voice is thin, his anger shimmering just below the surface. Sherlock’s grin vanishes.

“How did this happen, Captain Watson? You are engaged on the highest authority to protect my brother and this failure to contain an obvious threat is simply unacceptable.” Sherlock’s eyes are blazing now, but John steps in front of him (mentally reeling a little from the whole “brother” revelation).

“I understand, sir. It will not be allowed to happen again, I guarantee you that.” He nods firmly, feeling that Mycroft’s anger is wholly justified. He did fail, he is now looking to make it right. Mycroft snorts. 

“No matter, clearly you are unequal to the task you were set. I am uncertain what this means for any future work which may become available, but for now all there is to do is pack your things from Baker Street and return home. This threat has been dealt with. Your services are no longer required.” 

Sherlock is shaking with anger now, but remains silent. He knows that although the attempt on his life has been carried out unsuccessfully, there is no chance John will be allowed to stay with him. He’ll be sent another protection detail, possibly a full team this time. A second attempt will most likely be made in the very near future, as soon as his enemy discovers today’s failure. 

John is aghast, there is nothing he can do or say. Mycroft is right. He licks his lips, nods to the elder Holmes and, casting one last look at Sherlock, walks stiffly away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is bummed out, John is nowhere to be found and we draw this thing to a close. I think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much for sticking with this, I hope it's been worth it. Thank you so so so so much for all your comments and kudos, they're like crack to me. Come find me on tumblr!!

When Sherlock returns to Baker Street hours later, John is already gone. The door to his room stands ajar, dusk filtering through the small window and casting pale shadows across the landing. He inhales deeply, swallows, and pushes away the sentiment bubbling beneath his ribs. Lestrade pats his shoulder as he passes to sweep the rest of the flat.

Mycroft, of course, objects to Lestrade taking on Sherlock’s protection duty. Mycroft sacked John, turned and strode away, leading a silent Sherlock to Mrs Hudson. They were then standing in the ambassador’s private room with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, speaking in hushed tones while Sherlock paced, fury etched into his features at John’s dismissal. 

Mycroft gazed coldly at the security chief and swiftly deemed his position too important to the ambassador’s safety to re-assign to her translator. Particularly, he pointed out, as there is an important reception due to take place not two days hence. Sherlock had completely forgotten this, and so too it seemed, had Lestrade. He shuffled uncomfortably for a moment, apparently wanting to insist the reception be cancelled, but unwilling to anger the government official further. 

Mycroft sighed, continuing to insist that an entirely new security team is needed. Sherlock adopted his most fearsome glower and Mrs Hudson quietly but firmly disagreed. When Sherlock is inside the embassy, a trusted member of Lestrade’s team would suffice, and while outside the embassy the chief himself would be more than adequate. The matter is thus settled.

Lestrade had clapped Mycroft on the back with a large hand, and a promise to take care of his brother. Sherlock had snorted and flounced back to the library to bury himself once more in his work. He draws comfort from this, losing himself in a difficult dialect and diverting his mind’s sharp to the immediate task in front of him. 

Now, back in his home, his mind is racing unforgivingly over the last few hours. John Watson is gone, and Sherlock will likely never see him again. He stands in the doorway of John’s room (not even a week spent together and Sherlock already thinks of the space as entirely John’s), thinking. 

There is no logical reason for the dull ache in his chest. John made a mistake while acting as his personal guard, there is no question that Mycroft was right to dismiss him, though he was not ignoring John’s rapid return, and subsequent actions, of course. Nor was he dismissing the fact that John had succeeded in remaining at Sherlock’s side longer than any previous detail; the man had stated longer than any previous companion, in fact, since his childhood. 

This thought sends Sherlock deep into his mind palace, in search of something small, a fragment of a memory from when he was a boy. This dull ache, there is no better description he can put his finger on right now, is familiar in some way. He wanders the corridors, past rooms of data gleaned through a lifetime of paying attention to the tiniest details, until he finds it. 

The family dog…Redbeard, that’s why this feeling is familiar. He was only six, but in some way he understood that his faithful friend wasn’t going to return. Mycroft tried to gently explain it.

Redbeard had become very ill and it was cruel to let him suffer. It was better this way. Sherlock nodded, and grasped his brother’s hand tightly. When the tears finally threatened to overtake him, he fled upstairs, and slammed the doors as best as a six year-old child could. The ache subsided over time, of course, but Sherlock knew that he would give anything not to feel that again. But now…

Well, now he was feeling a similar sense of loss at the absence of an ex-army doctor, an unremarkable former Captain, a man he barely knows! Huffing in frustration at his mind’s ridiculous fixation on a short, blonde military medical professional, Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa. 

Lestrade hovers awkwardly in the sitting room doorway, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The gesture makes Sherlock think of John, causing a further wave of frustration to ripple down his body. 

“Well, I…erm…I guess…”

“Spit it out, Gavin.”

“It’s Greg, actually,” Lestrade huffs. “What I was going to say was that the flat is secured and I’m heading upstairs. Avoid hanging around the windows, the doors are locked and don’t, and I mean this, don’t try to sneak out. For God’s sake, I don’t need to incur the wrath of your bloody brother.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, but his eyes crinkle slightly in amusement at the thought of Lestrade pissing off his brother. 

“Right, see you in the morning Sherlock.” Greg makes for the stairs, pauses and turns back to the sofa. Sherlock closes his eyes and waits. 

“For what it’s worth, I thought you two were getting on really well. He would have been good for you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open.

“Er…I just mean John would be a good friend; I mean…he put up with you longer than anyone else, right?”

Lestrade sighs. Sherlock remains silent, and stares through the back of the sofa, picturing a sinkhole swallowing the building. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” Then Lestrade’s footsteps are on the stairs, followed by a few minutes of shuffling as he gets ready for bed; then all is quiet again.

Sherlock closes his eyes again, retreats to a peaceful corner of his mind palace and tries not to think of ex-army doctors. 

****** 

There are no further attempts on Sherlock’s life, and things seem to return to their previous patterns. Lestrade makes a reasonable house guest; he stays out of Sherlock’s way for the most part and checks in with him frequently when Sherlock works in the library. 

Sherlock thinks he feels John’s presence at his side sometimes, and he finds himself wondering what John is doing, or where he is. This occurs with increasing frequency. 

The past couple of mornings, Sherlock has awoken with a desperate need to dive straight into a very cold shower, thus avoiding indulging his transport’s shockingly intense desires. It was effective the first time, but this morning he cannot find relief. He takes himself in hand, and his release comes suddenly, with John’s name on his lips. Once out of the shower he scrubs himself furiously with a towel and dresses as quickly as possible. 

If Lestrade is aware of Sherlock’s activity from his kitchen chair, he merely allows himself a small smile, and returns to his coffee. 

Sherlock is vaguely aware that the reception is this evening, and as a key member of Ambassador Hudson’s staff, he is expected to attend. Lestrade will accompany him, but will also have other guests to worry about. Besides, the threat seems to have died down, for now. 

His suit hangs over the wardrobe door. Lestrade is waiting in the sitting room, having dutifully checked the bedroom windows. Right, Sherlock thinks. Into battle.

****** 

They arrive a little later than intended, and the reception is already underway. The caterers weave amongst the elegant guests, and Ambassador Hudson greets colleagues and friends from a variety of nations. Mycroft makes a blessedly brief appearance, before he vanishes back to whatever dark hallways of power in which he normally resides. 

There is a string quartet going through their clichéd repertoire and there is a gentle hum of conversation. Sherlock immediately finds the reception exceedingly dull. 

A member of the catering staff approaches Lestrade where he stands beside Sherlock at the bar, taps his elbow and whispers into his ear. Lestrade frowns and listens intently. Sherlock is curious, but the majority of his attention is occupied by the driver from his final morning with John. 

The tall man is dressed in a black suit like the other staff, the small bit of clear plastic in his ear the only subtle indicator marking him as security. He chats with one of the administrators, Molly, the birthday cake girl. His smile seems genuine but there is something in his eyes that gives Sherlock pause. He can’t pinpoint it at this distance and, whatever he may see there, Molly clearly does not. 

Lestrade’s voice breaks into his thoughts, “I’ll be back in a minute. Try not to get into any trouble.”

Sherlock turns to Lestrade’s retreating back and around again to Molly and the driver; they have disappeared into the crowd. 

****** 

“John, what are you doing here?” Lestrade strides furiously to the man waiting patiently at the bottom of the embassy’s entrance steps.

“I had to….I have to know he is alright.” John sighs, rubs his hand through his hair. “I…I haven’t been able to keep as close an eye on him from outside as I’d like, and I know there’s been no more attempts, but Greg…something’s not right.” 

Lestrade sighs as John presses on, “I know. I know I shouldn’t be here, but…I…” He stops, shrugs, and drops his hands to his sides in a gesture of helplessness. 

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Alright, what have you got for me?” 

As John fills him in on his suspicions, Lestrade begins to frown. His unease deepens as he realises he has been gone from Sherlock’s side longer than just a few minutes, He looks back to John, studying his face. John looks deflated but his eyes spark and his mouth is set firmly in determination. 

“What’s the plan then?” John’s voice has a hard edge. Lestrade considers his options before choosing to follow his more reckless side. 

****** 

Sherlock is bored to his wits’ end. The constant stream of information filtering into his brain makes him want to fist his hands in his hair and screech at them all to shut up. He refrains from exhibiting any outward signs of this of course, and as soon as he can, sneaks away to the balcony. His intention is to smoke an entire packet of cigarettes, possibly, and try to quiet his mind. 

He steps out into the cool night air, pulls matches and the long, unfiltered cigarettes from his suit jacket. He lights one, inhales deeply and feels the curling smoke soothe him. His thoughts, as ever, turn to John. 

Sherlock accepted a long time ago that he would always be alone. The burden of his incessant brain and the stubborn prickliness of his personality marked him as to be avoided early on; though his career choice was unfortunate, necessitating contact with others. The challenge of taking one form of words and converting it to another, conveying exactly the meaning held in the original, without adding, embellishing, or altering – that held boundless appeal. He found his way to Mrs Hudson’s side, and in her, discovered an intellectual equal who shared his passion for the intricacies of language. He was as close to happy as he had ever been, but despite this, remained aloof and alone. 

He’d thought it was meant to be that way. He’d thought he was better off alone; no distractions, no sentiments. Then John had quietly entered his life and completely disrupted its balance. 

He knows now he wants John to stay indefinitely. He wants John’s attention. He wants John to bring him food and cups of tea from the cafeteria, and to chuckle at him while he mouths incomprehensibly at his laptop screen. He wants John to come home with him to Baker Street, watch crap telly with him while Sherlock complains at the plot holes and appalling acting. He wants to curl up on the sofa, his cold feet under John’s thigh, or his head in John’s lap as he strokes Sherlock’s curls. He wants John to smile fondly, to lean down to him, press lips softly to Sherlock’s, and…

Sherlock shudders suddenly and shakes his head. 

Pointless, sentimental prattling. 

He is grasping for what could never be his in the first place, something that will always be out of his reach. John is gone. Even if he were not, he will never be Sherlock’s…can never be Sherlock’s. John shines, he is a glowing light in the darkness. Sherlock is darkness; he absorbs light until there is nothing but deep, endless black all around. 

This is why emotions should be avoided, Sherlock snarls at himself. He stamps his cigarette out and lights another. The smoke wafts into the glittering evening. Snapped from his thoughts, Sherlock becomes aware of someone behind him. 

He turns slowly, and comes face to face with the driver. He sweeps his eyes up and down the man; the driver’s face is placid, blank. He is perfectly still, allowing Sherlock’s gaze to wander. There are no tremors in his hands, no twitches in his fingers, nothing to give away his intentions except the emptiness in his eyes. He is here to claim Sherlock’s life. 

“I don’t suppose you would let me finish my cigarette first?” Sherlock asks laconically. The driver’s smile is cold, teeth bared slightly as though ready to sink into flesh. 

Sherlock finishes his cigarette, stubs it out and takes a step forward. 

The driver tilts his head questioningly. “Don’t you want to know who is behind this?” he asks softly. Sherlock scoffs. He is curious, but as he is obviously about to die and will be unable to pass on any information in a useful capacity, he is disinclined to prolong this any further.

“No, I do not want to know, I don’t care,” he sneers. 

The driver shrugs; smiles again and enquires, “How about wanting to know how you are to die?” 

That does hold some interest for Sherlock, as morbid as the thought is. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, trying to seem dismissive. 

“I am an expert in my chosen field, you see. I infiltrate, eliminate, and vanish,” the driver says with a hint of pride. “My methods are varied, but I’m favouring a hands-on approach for this job.” 

He favours Sherlock with another toothy grin, his eyes sliding down Sherlock’s neck to his open shirt collar. There is a flash of lust in his gaze as the driver takes in the smooth porcelain of Sherlock’s skin. His eyes trail back up to Sherlock’s mouth, lingering on his lips before returning to meet Sherlock’s eyes once more. Sherlock staunchly refuses to flinch. 

“We are all alone here, no-one to disturb us.” The driver is openly grinning now, but he hasn’t stepped forward or moved except to rove over Sherlock’s body. Sherlock is calm, controlling his nerves while he methodically hunts through the rooms of his mind palace for a way out. The longer this draws out, the more desperate his hunting becomes. Yet he is drawing a blank, nothing is springing forth, nothing is helping. 

His killer chuckles softly, baring yet more teeth. “Oh well, perhaps not,” he says. Sherlock draws himself to his full height, takes a deep breath. He is not ready, but accepts. He closes his eyes.

There is a sharp snap, breaking glass and a crumpling sound. 

Sherlock opens his eyes to see the driver sprawled not three feet from him, a neat hole in his forehead. 

Sherlock gasps, takes an involuntary step back and looks frantically around him. He thinks he sees some movement in the window of the empty office block opposite, but it is gone before he can focus on it. His thoughts are reeling, swirling above his head and no matter how he tries he cannot control them, or make them stop flooding into him, through him. 

A hand on his shoulder grounds him back to reality. He looks up into the kindly face and soft brown eyes of Lestrade. He allows Lestrade to lead him away from the body and through to the old library. He sits down on the sofa, his head bowed and his hands in his curls. There is a stream of questions from one of the security team, Sherlock bites his answers out and returns his head to between his knees. 

Someone brings him water, he doesn’t touch it. 

He hears Lestrade’s voice as he berates his team, issuing orders, consoling Mrs Hudson, and sparring with Mycroft. The reception continues unabated, no reason to cause fuss or disruption amongst the distinguished guests. Mrs Hudson pats Sherlock’s shoulder and returns to the event. He buries his head further into his hands, squeezing his eyes closed and twisting his curls through his fingers. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, or when he might be able to go home to Baker Street.

“Sherlock?” 

His head snaps up at the sound of John’s soft tenor. He meets navy blue eyes, creasing with concern, John’s hands are on his shoulders, steadying him. 

“Juh…John?” Sherlock mumbles.

“Yes, it’s me. Seems there was another threat to you after all…looks like someone took care of it though. What a fucking mess. Let’s go home.” John smiles and Sherlock’s chest constricts and expands at the same time.

He stands up, announces to Lestrade that he’s going home. Lestrade nods, grins, and goes back to barking at his team. 

They walk down the stairs, thankful for the quiet as they approach the rear door. No car home tonight, they’ll just get a cab. John is here, he can keep them safe. Sherlock is unaware of how close he is to John; and John, for his part, is unaware of his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back.

John’s hand is warm as he takes hold of Sherlock’s gently. Sherlock’s eyes widen, he tries to glance down without drawing attention and fails miserably. 

“Is…. Is this ok?” John asks tentatively. Sherlock looks at the ex-army doctor, his protector, his John. His mouth quirks. 

“Dinner?” 

John returns his smile when he replies. 

“Starving.”


End file.
